Live In Concert
by Marvelicious
Summary: Baphomet wants to give them something extra. Something to have the crowd sick with revulsion and desire in equal measure. Something to terrify them with perverse lusts, wake up that sick little lizard brain in all of them, and make it crave the kicks they can't get anywhere else. Baphomet/Morrigan; performance art, bloodplay


Queen and King of the underworld - it'll be a double headliner to remember either way, but Baphomet wants to give them something extra. Something to have the crowd sick with revulsion and desire in equal measure. Something to terrify them with perverse lusts, wake up that sick little lizard brain in all of them, and make it crave the kicks they can't get anywhere else.

They don't call him King of Hell for nothing.

The Morrigan lays her hand atop his backstage, small, pale fingers dwarfed by his as Baphomet provides her the tool of his destruction. He tapes the razor to her palm with the care of a lover. Broken bottles are so passe, and he'd be marked by her hand alone.

"That feel like it'll work?"

She reaches out to catch Baphomet's hip, tugs him closer, and he can feel the blade drag along his skin. Her hand comes back smeared with blood.

They both look down to see the thin cut on his hipbone, beading crimson, and when Baphomet catches the Morrigan's eye again, he has to catch his breath. There's bloodlust written all over her face, and if he isn't careful, he's going to let her fuck him right on stage - laws and good taste be damned along with him.

The Morrigan smiles predatory, as if she knows exactly what he's thinking, and doesn't break eye contact when she licks his blood off of her fingers.

She straightens her dress and grabs her mic to hide the razor in her palm - as if she has no idea the effect she has on him, didn't just suck her fingers clean of his fluid with the look of a hungry war-god. Baphomet adjusts his pants.

 _Fuck_.

It's a small venue - some shitty little dive bar that doesn't seem to know what's hit it - and the chants of the crowd are beginning to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat in his chest. Baphomet shakes sparks from his fingers and bounces on the balls of his feet. Nearly, nearly.

Draw it out, let them wait, have them ready to faint for the sight of War and Seduction in concert.

A guitar shrieks, eardrum shatteringly loud, and the place falls silent.

Baphomet takes his place on stage trailing flames, and hopes the owner's shitting himself somewhere wondering if he'll burn the place to the ground. He's all too aware of the Morrigan's eyes on him, watching from the darkness he leaves behind, making love to his fucking soul with her cruel gaze. He grins and bares his fangs.

He'll give her a show too, make it that much better when she gets to dig her claws into him and tear apart her playtoy for the mortals' awe.

That it's just as much for him as it is them is immaterial.

The words come like the burn of whiskey in his throat. _Embrace your deaths, mortals; give in to the existential terror and let it fuck you senseless_. He's sin and temptation incarnate, luring them all in with sighs and moans and growls that shake the place to its foundation.

Little do they know.

Baphomet licks flame from his fingers; tonight, he's just the warm-up.

He leaps off the stage to land in front of them, up close and personal, prowling before the awed crowd. Baphomet's flames leap higher and higher as they scream for him, dancing against his exposed skin. He's never felt so alive.

Men and women alike swoon from his gaze alone. And Baphomet plays with them: eyefucks anyone lucky enough to meet his gaze and watches them fall to their knees, drunk on the best damned experience of their lives.

Those brave enough reach out to touch him - hands all over from his neck to his thighs - and he's driving them out of their fucking minds. Past shame, past _shouldn't_ , past any sense of decency or decorum. If his skin didn't burn to the touch, if his pants weren't so slick and so tight as to defy them purchase, Baphomet would be stripped in an instant - might turn this hellhole into a gangbang with himself at its center.

He flings himself back against the stage, stretches his arms out along the black-painted wood as if he's being crucified to the lusts of the crowd, writhing in what could be agony or sexual ecstasy. Behind him, Baphomet can feel his angel of death approaching - forgoes words for obscene noises, quieter and quieter until the whole crowd is silent again, leaning forward with bated breath.

Every eye in the room is on him, flames dimmed to follow suit. Only he can hear the rustle of wings behind him.

A scream rends the air, and Baphomet doesn't need to look behind him to feel the Morrigan stretch out her great and terrible wings. Ravens soar from the stage in a neverending torrent, turning the darkness into something alive and terrifying.

She crouches behind him at the edge of the stage, and this is it - Baphomet sucks in a breath and lets himself be just as taken by the Morrigan's victory anthem. It's ancient, feral, and sends shivers racing down his spine even before her touch.

But then the Morrigan is draping a hand over him, reaching down so her fingertips nearly brush his belt buckle. What he wouldn't give to have her hand just a bit lower; he's so fucking hard he could cut steel. And it's electric - Baphomet isn't faking anything: not the shudder that runs through him, the way his hips angle instinctively to follow her touch or the noises like sex that spill from his throat.

Her hand on him alone marks Baphomet deeper than a brand; he wonders if the mortals can see that - the way her nails dig into him as she sings, leaving behind red crescents that might as well spell out her name. And then her voice is growing louder and Baphomet can feel her breath against the shell of his ear.

She caresses him - her lover and war-prize - and Baphomet can feel the bite of the razor making her claim tangible.

There's a simultaneous gasp from the crowd.

He doesn't look down. Knows he's bleeding, can smell it on the air and feel it drip down his chest. Instead, Baphomet throws his head back and joins her in rapture.

Victory in what she destroys, euphoria in his destruction - two battling sides of human instinct that go together like sex and violence.

Which is to say - preferably - all the fucking time.

Baphomet touches himself, smearing his own blood across his chest and down to his waistband where he makes a show of just barely stopping short of his cock. The sweat he's worked up spreads it even further, no doubt giving the impression that they're watching a god bleed out before their eyes. Someone is wretching, someone isn't even trying to be discreet about masturbating.

His hand comes back scarlett, glistening darkly in the light of his flames. Baphomet shows it to the crowd - let them see the beauty in ruin - and reaches up to capture the Morrigan by the throat before she can move away.

He doesn't squeeze, just holds onto her and savors the feeling of her throat fluttering like a bird in his fist, even the slightest of vibrations pulsing down his arm. Gaze into the abyss and it will gaze into you; flirt with destruction and he'll flirt right back.

When Baphomet turns finally, leaping back onto the stage to join her, his handprint is clear on the Morrigan's neck. She wears it like a slave collar, like a queen's jewels, at once both claim and tribute.

And _damn_ , she looks good in his blood.

By the time they bring the lights down, he's so supercharged on their followers' worship that Baphomet can't stay still for the life of him.

He is aching, and pleasantly so, but so far past distraction that he can barely think beyond the need to drag the Morrigan into bed. Or, y'know, the sound booth. A closet. Right there on the floor. He can't keep his hands off of her - wants to feel her cut him again, carve her fucking name into his skin for real.

Her fingers trace over Baphomet's bare chest, drawing patterns in his drying blood. He arches into it, practically starving for the Morrigan's touch, but it isn't until he hears a groupie giggle - her cheeks flushed with undisguised lust - that Baphomet looks down at himself.

There amongst the blood are the outlines of her ravens in a tumultuous whirlwind, one word at the center of it all that nearly makes Baphomet cream his too-tight pants on the spot.

 _Mine_.


End file.
